


Negotiators & The Crystal Run: A Star Wars Story

by skysonfire



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Beta Wanted, Brian Vernel, Cybernetics, F/M, Galactic Empire, Galactic Federation of Free Alliances, Gardens of Tralala, Guavian Death Gang - Freeform, Jedi, Kuat, Kuat Drive Yards, Kyber Crystal, Lothal, Love Story, Naboo - Freeform, Nova Crystal, Orbital Array, Original Character(s), Outer Rim, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Quadranium, Side Story, Smut with a Story, Star Destroyer, Star Wars Canon, Star Wars Story, Star Wars: The Force Awakens - Freeform, The First Order, The Republic, The Ten, Tostovin Munitions, Vaynai, Wild Space, slick, star wars legends - Freeform, starfighter - Freeform, the empire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:36:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6516946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skysonfire/pseuds/skysonfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following militarization by The Empire, Kuat, under the watchful eye of The Ten, struggles with its new agreements with the Galactic Federation of Free Alliances. House Andrim, largely responsible for materials logistics for the Kuat Drive Yards, aligns with the Guavian Death Gang to secure and move goods and materials in exchange for credits and Slick, a highly addictive euphoric. Recognizing the strength of the rising First Order, Hatje Andrim, patriarch of House Andrim relies on gang affiliation to assure his family's security and the strength of their name. He rests his burdens on his eldest daughter, Dréa, to handle family negotiations with Bala-Tik, the leading mouthpiece for the Guavian Death Gang. The two, largely orphans of circumstance, form their own quiet alliance amidst brewing civil unrest and the increased corruption that threatens Kuat and neighboring planets. When Hatje requests that Bala-Tik consider a new mission, however, it tests the strength of his connection with Dréa, and proves to reveal certain mysteries surrounding their pasts that could prove to shape their futures and the future of the entire galaxy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Negotiators & The Crystal Run: A Star Wars Story

Purple silk swirls about her ankles and brushes against the tops of her feet — the gravel path pops and crushes under their weight as they stroll through the arboretum. Everything is soft — the touch of a turning breeze, changing from winter to spring, the faint mechanical pulse of his cybernetic leg as they pace in tandem, the sigh of the spice bushes, their leaves touching like lovers and painted in vibrant red, warm orange and sparkling golden. The quaint fountain ahead babbles and splashes in its basin, dappling the stone steps flanking its base. Overhead, feathery clouds brush against the blue of the sky, and beyond it’s almost impossible to see the Kuat Drive Yards in their orbital array. Only a shadowy halo hangs above and hugs the planet, reminding the whole of the world of what lies beyond — factory; industry; sweat and warships; deals, death, tragedy and betrayal.

She looks over at him and smiles to herself. His eyes are sensitive to the sun, and when he squints, the skin at the top of his nose puckers in a sweet, boyish way that re-gifts him innocence long lost. He squeezes her arm to his body just a little too tightly, but she knows why, because she clings on, too, in the way that her eyes hold and implore him. They are youths in an old galaxy, struggling and always in dangerous flux. They fight for a place in their worlds: his name attached to one of the galaxy’s most feared and resilient gangs; hers written into the history of one of Kuat’s most noble of The Ten houses. They couldn’t be more different, or more the same, and everything spins on around them in a centrifugal blur. It’s all they can do to hold on while the fury of the galaxy rages beyond, and the silence of Wild Space waits.

When they emerge from the canopied walkway, covered over in so much foliage, the distinct smell of jasmine weaves about and cleaves to them. Hints of orange and herbs chime in, and the fountain's water adds a clean scent that brings the sensory notes into complete harmony. She watches him breathe it all in and his shoulders relax for the first time since his arrival on the planet.

“How long will you stay?” She asks, dipping her hand under one of the fountain’s weeping, glittery streams.

“Not long,” he responds, watching the skin of her hand moisten at the water’s touch.

The sounds of his voice are so different than hers — the air mixing inside of him to bring forth deep vowel exaggerations and rolling letters; sentences woven and brewed into a harmonious blend. When he’s tired, she sometimes needs to watch the fullness of his lips as he speaks so that her eyes assist in the interpretation of his words. She aches for the sounds his throat makes — the noises conjured as the syllables find their way through his teeth and skip off of his tongue. It’s such an outdoor and exotic sound. When she closes her eyes, his words remind her of gentle hills and quaint farms; of dark, frothy liquor, old stone, and so much green.

He sounds of the mixing languages of Lothal, and it brings to her chest an ache for the child he was and the man he’s become. Once a lush, diverse planet, Lothal’s sparkle had been largely extinguished by the Empire. Many, including Bala-Tik, had been driven from their own homes, scattered to the universe like so many leaves in winter. The Empire had done the same to Kuat, of course, but its capitalization of her planet’s resources came not from the destruction of the surface, but the fortification of its orbital array and the enhancement of the beautification of its surface. Planets were pawns in war, and although destruction wears different faces, it molds the inhabitants of otherwise peaceful homes into ruthless killers, thieves, liars, rapers, betrayers and suicide soldiers. Still, war and strife had made her and Bala-Tik something other than strangers. As she feels the air change about her from the occupation of his physical presence, she is selfishly grateful for the pain and tears; all the blood-soaked ground. In a peaceful time, she never would know his voice, his scent, his touch. She would never know the manner in which her heart could gallop like a wild thing, spurred on by a simple glance or smile. She wonders what kind of person this makes her, and there is a degree of sickness that taints the back of her throat when she thinks about it.

She sits on the top step next to the fountain and he takes his place a step below her, beside her knee. His hand – its fingers delicate and lean – finds its way to her ankle, and he strokes her skin so finely as though he’s touching her with feathers or a fine pelt.

“Your father won’t be happy to see me,” he continues, turning his head to look up at her. Flecks of hazel and green dance in the inky, deep-set wells through which he watches her. She clears her throat.

“My father,” she starts, but rubs her hands together cautiously before continuing. “My father seems very pleased with the materials you’ve been securing. I think that a meeting with him would benefit you, Bala.”

“You mean that he’s been pleased with Guavian.” He smiles at her subtext. “Dréa, I see the way he considers me.” He pauses and runs his hand up her calf and along the outside of her thigh. Her skin is fresh and hot. He bites his bottom lip and her blood surges. “I am all of the things that he hates and loves.” And she knows that he’s right.

It wasn’t entirely surprising where she had secured her heart. Her father, Hatje Andrim, the patriarch of House Andrim, was largely responsible for materials and technology procurement and exchange for the Kuat Drive Yards where the majority of the galaxy’s military ships were engineered, assembled and brokered. Kuat had a long history of shipbuilding helmed by the oldest of the planet’s aristocratic families cited as The Ten. Originally allegiant to the Republic, separatist influence and the eventuality of war led the Galactic Empire to forcefully militarize the orbital operations of Kuat, devastating other shipbuilders, and securing a long-standing hold on the manufacture of starfighters, patrol craft, assault walkers, starship shield generators, sensor arrays and star destroyers. Following the Battle of Kuat, the New Republic wrestled against the Empire for control of the planet and its Drive Yards until The Ten formally announced Kuat’s alignment with the Galactic Federation of Free Alliances (GFFA).

The alignment was not unanimously accepted amongst The Ten — indeed, the Empire had made many of its leaders rich and powerful, and there was resentment amongst the elite at the idea of turning toward the GFFA. Under its trade and manufacturing guidelines, the use of black market technology was strictly forbidden, and the price of materials and natural elements used to prepare weaponry and ships became exponentially more expensive and difficult to procure. The changing guard would affect House Andrim deeply, and under the leadership of Hatje Andrim, the family needed to find a new way to survive and thrive through the employment of various underground organizations, the most efficient and dangerous of which proved to be the Guavian Death Gang and its merciless cybernetically altered foot soldiers. Not only did the gang offer full protection and guarantee of its investments, they were equipped with the most connected dealers across the galaxy and fronted with the savviest of negotiators to broker the quietest and most fortuitous of deals. Finally, the gang proved to have dealings with the First Order, and Hatje felt strongly that this new regime would be the one to impress and align with the greedy desires of Kuat’s jaded leaders — ones that had once become fat, lazy and rich in the shadow of the Empire.

Through the Guavian Death Gang, Hatje was one of very few materials logisticians on Kuat who was able to procure such healthy quantities of quadranium, which was absolutely essential for the proper construction of fuel tanks that helped to power many of the starships that the Drive Yards manufactured. Quadranuim, of course, was an interesting metal, in that manipulated by the right hands and forge, could be fashioned into a fierce blade suitable for close-range combat in war. In exchange for this highly sought after metal, Hatje paid Guavian a fair degree of credits for their regular shipments, but what truly made the gang’s collective mouths water was their payment in Slick, a wildly contagious recreational drug made from fermented seaweed oil. Although its origins could be pinpointed to Vaynai in the Outer Rim, Kuat boasted its own steadily growing underground of seaweed oil harvesters and cookers. Naturally, Hatje had his own foot soldiers dappling the coastal areas of Kuat, who provided him with a seemingly endless selection of Slick in varying strengths that caused different degrees of euphoria in the user. Guavian had found that drug peddling suited them just fine as it lessened the need for guerrilla tactics. In fact, distribution was so good, the Tostovin Munitions company was near to begging them for their patronage as orders for percussive cannons were right in the tank. The need for their use had been slashed, and even Bala-Tik spent more time polishing the barrel of his weapon than he did firing it. Business was good for Kuat and Guavian, and everyone seemed to play nicely in the sandbox.

House Andrim thrived. Dréa’s father had good, but misdirected intentions that saw his beginnings as a respected aristocrat with the highest regard, lead to his becoming a shady back-jabber consumed by greed and fear. He was a coward at best, and was paralyzed by hard decisions, leaving much of his family’s fate to the hands of loyal Kuati eyes on the ground, whom he paid, of course, and the gang in which he entrusted the secure of their future. These were risky choices and bold moves that prompted Dréa to positioned herself as her family’s representative in an effort to use her intelligence as a manner of defense. She was the eldest of Hatje’s daughters, and Hatje had only daughters, no sons, to represent the House. Dréa was followed in line by Giakra, Grisa, Carté and Yel, girls that raged in age from 20 to 13. Dréa herself was only 23, but she had a quick mind and an uncanny sense for danger. She was also ferociously protective of her family, even though she saw the cracks and flaws that she knew would give way to the waves of deceit and jealously. It was all she could do to keep heads level and dealings smooth. Her negotiations were so smooth, in fact, Hatje rarely showed his face for transactions any longer, relying instead on the wit and intelligence of his daughter to stand up against platoons of gang members covered in red battle armor and accessorized for full combat. It was fine for her to act as the family’s shield against cutthroat, cybernetically altered and rough-cut negotiators. It was OK for her to make exchanges with Slick dealers in the nights on the damp docks of Calfina Inlet. It was fine, she was fine, and House Andrim stood strongly on her throat as the world about them praised her father’s name for his thrifty ingenuity, economic savvy, unmatched business mind and carefully-maintained image.

Bala-Tik doesn’t offer an immediate response to Dréa’s suggestion; instead, he looks past her and away at the swaying bamboo in the distance. He is often far and somewhere else in her presence. There is something ancient behind his eyes – as if he keeps to himself all the worlds and their ancestors. The burden he carries is not simply comprised of his own loss, and she wonders if he feels it, too — the pressure that moves and shakes the air over his skin, so strong, and the closer she gets, the less she knows. The only thing that offers any type of clarity is the force of her heart against her ribs when he’s near.

She sighs and sweeps a loose piece of golden hair from her face and over the silver circlet she wears about her head.

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter.” She pauses to run her finger along one of the thick seams on the front of his heavy coat. “He wants to meet with you anyway, so you’ve little choice in the matter.”

He rests his head against her knee and closes his eyes. “I’m tired, Dréa,” and he reaches up to unfasten the collar of his coat. “And I don’t want to talk about your father.” He places his lips on the silk that covers her knee, and she leans forward to nuzzle her face into his brown hair.

“I know, Bal,” she whispers, and she kisses the soft hair on the back of his neck. He exhales deeply and the sun hides itself behind the wispy cloak of a careless cloud. Dréa closes her eyes and they sit quietly, wrapped together as though cast in stone. 

The fountain’s rebel waters splash against the leather of his coat and run off his sleeve like so many tears. There are words on her lips that she dare not say aloud, so she mouths them silently against his neck where he can feel the honesty of their touch. Everything is so soft.


End file.
